


in which there is a bar brawl and a few bloody kisses

by bottleredhead



Series: with blood in their mouths [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (fyi that's my favourite tag ever), Bahorel/Grantaire BrOTP 5eva, Drunken Shenanigans, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Revolutionaries In Love, bloody kisses are the best, gratuitous use of swear words, non-graphic description of blood, some violence but not graphic, this OTP is killing me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 21:27:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottleredhead/pseuds/bottleredhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feuilly is used to cleaning up split knuckles, stitching wounds and wrapping up sprained wrists. It’s a skill honed from years of looking after Bahorel after his numerous fights. The scent of blood no longer flips his stomach – nor does the sight of it gushing from a broken nose or sluggishly flowing over bones visible from broken skin stretching open over a knuckle.</p><p>He hums a little as he dabs antiseptic over the shallow cuts near Bahorel’s left eyebrow, ignoring the occasional wince from the mammoth-sized man in front of him when the cotton catches on the deeper scratches. It had taken him an hour to remove all the pieces of glass that had imbedded themselves in the tawny skin.</p><p>“You’re getting pretty good at this,” remarks Bahorel casually. His eyes are flitting around their surroundings, as if that would hide the fact that he keeps stealing glances at Feuilly. “As good as Joly, I’d wager.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	in which there is a bar brawl and a few bloody kisses

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, this is for [Jen](http://tiny-tveit.tumblr.com), because she prompted the creation of this 'verse.
> 
> This is a drabble, and the works in this series will not be in chronological order, but as far as this work goes, it's happening a while after the first drabble.

Feuilly is used to cleaning up split knuckles, stitching wounds and wrapping up sprained wrists. It’s a skill honed from years of looking after Bahorel after his numerous fights. The scent of blood no longer flips his stomach – nor does the sight of it gushing from a broken nose or sluggishly flowing over bones visible from broken skin stretching open over a knuckle.

He hums a little as he dabs antiseptic over the shallow cuts near Bahorel’s left eyebrow, ignoring the occasional wince from the mammoth-sized man in front of him when the cotton catches on the deeper scratches. It had taken him an hour to remove all the pieces of glass that had imbedded themselves in the tawny skin.

“You’re getting pretty good at this,” remarks Bahorel casually. His eyes are flitting around their surroundings, as if that would hidee the fact that he keeps stealing glances at Feuilly. “As good as Joly, I’d wager.”

A laugh escapes him, even though his hand remains steady as he swipes the cotton ball over the widest cut. “Don’t place your bets just yet. Besides, I wouldn’t be doing this if you hadn’t decided to get into a fight, asshole.”

Bahorel grins at him. It’s a bloody thing, the opposite of reassuring. He looks like a Viking warrior back from war, laden with the spoils of his raid and his bloody victory. Feuilly shakes his head to dissipate the image, tuning back into the conversation in time to hear Bahorel say: “’S’not my fault that douchefucker was a homophobic bastard. Grantaire fought, too.” The petulant note in his voice only comes out in the presence of Feuilly, and he has to briefly turn his head to hide the smile threatening to overcome his face.

“Grantaire fought because he started it. And now Enjolras is giving him a piece of his mind,” he reminds Bahorel, russet-coloured eyebrow rising pointedly. At the other end of the table, Enjolras is performing the same task of berate-clean-bandage on Grantaire, who seems to be arguing hotly with every word Enjolras says despite the grin that’s keeping the cut on his lip from closing. Enjolras looks exasperated, yet anyone who looks closer can see the fondness and concern warring for dominance in his eyes.

Combeferre, seated next to Enjolras, catches Feuilly’s eye and smirks. He too can see the smile that Enjolras is trying, in vain, to hide. Feuilly smirks back before turning his attention to the bruised skin underneath his hands.

“Yeah,” Bahorel says, tone more mischievous than petulant, “but Enjolras will kiss it all better for Grantaire once they go to their flat. Will you do that for me? You never know, kissing might be my only chance at surviving this.”

“One, you’re not dying, it’s just a few scratches and bruises. Two, you’re an idiot.”

Bahorel just grins at him, unperturbed by how the action sends more blood gushing from the large gash across his bottom lip. “Aw, but you love me anyway.”

“God help me, I do,” he murmurs, hoping that his voice is too low for Bahorel to hear. Judging by his shit-eating grin, Feuilly has no doubt that Bahorel knows exactly what it is he’s said. “Don’t know why though, what with how you’re a complete fucker. Was it really necessary to get hit over the head with a beer bottle?”

The patron with whom Bahorel and Grantaire had fought was a bastard who insulted Jehan when he laid an innocent kiss on Grantaire’s lips. Of course, being who they are (read: idiotic morons), Grantaire had swung at the man and Bahorel had tackled the man’s friend when he rose up from the table he’d been sitting at. Musichetta had thrown the two men out and given both Bahorel and Grantaire a stern talking-to about fighting in her pub. Then she’d ordered Feuilly and Enjolras to clean them up with the promise of a free round of beers virtue of the fact that they were defending Jehan – no one likes to see Jehan hurt, never mind the fact that he’s more than capable of taking an attacker out on his own. Krav Maga is a beautiful, if slightly scarring thing.

Feuilly is snapped out of his thoughts by the feeling of Bahorel’s lips against his, the salty taste of blood flooding his mouth in a familiar way. They’d had a hundred kisses like this, with Bahorel just fresh from a fight and Feuilly’s hands smelling of antiseptic or full of gauze as he puts his lover back together into a whole piece. When Bahorel licks into his mouth, Feuilly opens for him like a morning flower, lips staining with the blood from Bahorel’s own. There’s something to be said about how poetic those kisses are, bloody and impassioned and frenzied as they are, but neither of them is much for poetry and there are more pressing urges than writing a bloody (ha!) sonnet about the moment. Like living in the damn moment, and the growing hardness in his trousers.

“Cut it out, we’re in public,” Joly complains mildly.

His voice snaps them out of their kissing-induced white-out, and they part with a wet sound and a trail of red-tinged saliva. Bahorel’s grin is still bloody, but his teeth are no longer covered in a thin sheen of red, courtesy of Feuilly’s tongue. His own lips are probably redder than usual, swollen too, and he knows they must make a sight for sore eyes. They smirk at each other before swiveling around to face the rest of their friends.

Courfeyrac wiggles his eyebrows at them. “Eugh. No, really guys, I’m all for PDA-” he’s cut off by a pained chorus of “ _we know_ ” “-but you two bring it to a whole new level of disgusting.”

Jehan bats at him to shut up. “I think it’s romantic,” he says, starry-eyed. His gaze focuses, then, sharp as it settles on his boyfriend. “And you’re probably the last person who gets to talk about PDA. People in glass houses, Courfeyrac...”

Courfeyrac yelps when Bahorel stretches to cuff him ‘round the ear. “Fuck off, Courf, you great Irish fucker.”

They all laugh at Courfeyrac’s imploring eyes, begging Jehan to “kiss the booboo better”. Feuilly makes use of their momentary distraction to lick into Bahorel’s mouth once more, quick and dirty, before drawing away.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Bahorel whispers, his nose brushing Feuilly’s ear with how close he is, “I’m all for sneak-attack kisses, but what was that for?”

Feuilly merely smirks at him, settling back in his chair to watch his friends rib on Courfeyrac. “You had a little…” he waves a hand at the vicinity of his mouth. “Blood. Thought I’d do you a favour.”

Bahorel’s eyes seem to promise _tonight_ , dark and smouldering as they are, before he, too, leans back in his chair to enjoy the general mayhem that accompanies his chosen group of friends.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Comments and kudos are very welcome :)
> 
> Find me at enjolraspermitsit.tumblr.com, y'know, that is if this pairing hasn't killed me yet.
> 
> Also, happy second day of Eid if anyone who reads this celebrates it! Ramadan is over, which means I can finally have tea in the mornings again. ~~I should probably start studying for the test I have in three days instead of writing Les Mis vic. Oops.~~


End file.
